


blood in the soil

by poppyseedheart (hockeycaptains)



Category: RWBY
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/F, F/M, Getting Together, Moral Ambiguity, Multi, Past Abuse, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Resurrection, Revenge, Slow Burn, Space Pirates
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-18
Updated: 2017-10-18
Packaged: 2019-01-19 06:12:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,711
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12404685
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hockeycaptains/pseuds/poppyseedheart
Summary: Pyrrha Nikos dies on a Thursday, but she wakes up gasping for breath on a Saturday almost a year later, just a stone’s throw from her own grave.





	blood in the soil

**Author's Note:**

> Hi new fandom! My love for Pyrrha & RWBY in general finally won out, so here I am posting a fic. It's my first WIP in a looooong time, which I'm very excited but also a little nervous about, and I will take any and all feedback on it!
> 
> I do anticipate this being at least 70k, so strap in. Tags will be updated as more characters appear, more things happen, etc etc. Ships will happen! We'll get there I promise!
> 
> Much love to Katy for being the best cheerleader/beta/pal a fic-writing gal could ask for. <3

Pyrrha Nikos dies on a Thursday, but she wakes up gasping for breath on a Saturday almost a year later, just a stone’s throw from her own grave.

“Finally,” says a voice, startling her. The woman standing over her looks familiar in a sideways way, smile sharp, black hair tumbling in every direction. “That’s my job done,” she continues, brushing some dirt from her hands. Her outfit is all dramatic lines, high boots, billowy sleeves. Her eyes are red and wide and very, very dark.

Pyrrha, still sitting on the ground, blinks while her brain tries to catch up. “Sorry,” she says, grasping at what she can remember and finding very little of value, “I don’t think we’ve met.”

The woman sighs. “Let’s keep it that way. Trust me, it’ll be easier for the both of us.”

“I don’t understand.”

“I’d be worried if you did,” answers the mysterious woman. She tilts her head like she’s listening to something and then smiles, and that’s almost familiar, too. “I should go. I wasn’t supposed to talk to you in the first place.” And with that, she starts to walk away, dust kicking up under her boots and casting up a cloud of murkiness, practically disguising her.

“Wait,” calls Pyrrha, scrambling to stand. Her legs are weak, but she manages. “Who are you? What’s going on?”

“You’ll find out later, most likely,” answers the woman. She doesn’t even bother turning around, and something desperate tugs at Pyrrha’s chest. “Seriously, just focus on staying alive for now. You don’t have to find this war - it’ll find you first.” She seems remarkably blasé about the fact that she ostensibly just raised someone from the dead. Pyrrha herself is still reeling, and she has so many more questions, but then the woman– she–

The woman disappears through a swirling portal like a trick of the light, and then she’s gone. 

Pyrrha’s left by herself, her hand outstretched toward nothing, and realizes with a dawning horror that she’s standing in the middle of what must be the ruins of Beacon Academy. There’s no breeze, no bird calls, no signs of life at all. Pyrrha’s semblance reaches for metal and sometimes that makes her cold, but the sheer emptiness of this place has her skin crawling. Did none of them survive? She lost the fight that mattered - that much she remembers - but she’d been so desperate to buy the rest of them time. The thought of her friends failing to make it out nearly brings her to her knees.

It takes a moment for Pyrrha to center herself. She scans her body as best she can - rolls her neck, flexes her hands. She’s tired, but everything seems to be in working order, and it eases some of the uncharacteristic panic that had been building in her chest. She tests a roundhouse kick, then tries a front flip and lands it. She reaches for her sword and shield, and-

Nothing.

In the distance, she hears a roar, impossible to mistake for anything but a Grimm. She reaches out with her semblance, scanning the rubble for anything she can use to defend herself, and finding answers slides to second on her list of priorities. The first two pings send chunks of melted scrap flying at her feet, lying in a mangled pile. She could try to reshape them, but something tells her to keep searching. Relying on her instincts is her default state in situations like this. 

It takes another five minutes and several more pieces of unusable metal before she finds something promising. It’s burned like all the rest, but the blade is intact, and it’s sharper than Pyrrha expected it to be when she tests it against the meat of her palm. The blood it draws is startlingly bright where it drips on the ground, a stark contrast to the bleak environment and a vivid reminder that she really is alive. 

The weapon is shaped like a rifle, the sword attached like a cleaner, more vicious version of a bayonet. The gun itself won’t fire, something in the internal structure too damaged to be fixed easily, and Pyrrha doesn’t know enough about firearms to trust herself to try without help. And anyway, Pyrrha’s never been much for guns.

She tests a swing. It’s a bit unwieldy, the size bigger than she’s used to, but she knows that she just needs some practice. After quickly bending some scrap into an approximation of a shield, she feels better about her chances, and starts walking away from the rubble.

If there are answers to be found, she won’t find them here. Pyrrha gives her headstone one parting glance before she goes. It lists her name, dates, and has a brief inscription:

_May we be worthy of her sacrifice._

Part of Pyrrha wants to smile, but more of her wants to cry. She does neither, instead walking toward the forest. As she does, the first Grimm tears through the treeline, and Pyrrha nods to herself. This part, at least, she knows how to do.

The Grimm charges her, eyes red beneath the bone white faceplate.

Pyrrha adjusts her stance, raises her sword and shield, and prepares to fight.

/

“Ruby! Will you at least slow down?”

Ruby just laughs. “Nope!” she yells back, and Yang wonders again how exactly they ended up this far from home. This part of the forest is just as burned as the rest from what they’ve seen, and none of the three villages they’ve come across had anyone left to explain what happened. It’s not hard to get an idea by looking at these ghost towns, but it’s still hard to stomach all the quiet. Yang knows the two of them both are bad at sitting still, but it might do them some good to stop blindly pressing forward as lead after lead dries up.

She just needs to get Ruby and her relentless optimism to _listen_ , which is proving to be exactly as difficult as it sounds.

“If we keep going East,” Ruby is explaining animatedly, color lighting up her pale cheeks, “then we have to hit something eventually. This path of destruction can’t go on forever, and when we find whatever’s on the other side, we can finally fight something.”

Yang sighs. “I want this to end, too,” she says, “but look around. Do you really think the two of us alone can beat whatever did this?” It’s not the first time Yang has tried to make this point. She’s a fighter, but there’s nothing to fight here.

As if she didn’t hear Yang at all, Ruby continues on her merry way. “I wonder if there will be a restaurant in the next town we get to,” she wonders aloud.

“Ruby.”

“Yang,” replies Ruby evenly.

Yang closes her eyes, takes a breath, tries to quell her temper. “This is insane,” she says, managing to keep her voice down. “We have no idea what we’re getting into. We’ll be vaporized. And even if we aren’t killed right away, how are the two of us alone supposed to stop anyone with this much power?”

Ruby finally stops skipping up ahead, letting Yang catch up to her. Her eyes are wide, guileless, light reflecting off of them. It makes her look innocent, and she is, mostly. She’s stubborn, too, though, a trait that must come from her mother. Neither Yang nor Ruby seem to have inherited Tai’s patience. “If we don’t try,” says Ruby, “who will? Weiss left on some mission for revenge, no one’s even heard from Blake, Nora and Ren disappeared months ago, and after Pyrrha- after she- Jaune just… left. None of our classmates are around, and Qrow’s been missing for months. Huntsmen are practically an endangered species, and this keeps happening!” She waves a hand around, voice high and agitated. “Things keep burning down, and no one’s doing _anything_. How can we stop?” 

“If we die,” answers Yang, “then there will really be no one.” Yang doesn’t know when she started being the sensible one, but this past year has changed a lot of things for all of them. “We don’t have to stop, but we need to slow down and be smart about this.”

“The longer we wait,” contests Ruby, “the more people die. We still have a few hours of sun left, can’t we just-”

Yang, impulsive, frustrated, pulls her trump card. “I know where Weiss is.”

Ruby is terrifyingly, uncharacteristically silent for a long beat. When she does speak, it’s quiet, just barely more than a breath:

“What?”

Even the air around them seems to have stilled. “Nothing’s for sure, but before we left the last town I got word that she would be in Vacuo by the end of the month. That was just over three weeks ago. If we leave now, we might be able to intercept her.”

Ruby looks frozen, blinking like she’s thinking very hard about something. “Why didn’t you tell me?” she asks, finally. 

“I didn’t know what would happen,” answers Yang, but she’s already lost this one. It’s a million times more complicated than she made it out to be, but there’s no use trying to explain, because Ruby isn’t listening; her expression is closed off, and she has her arms wrapped around herself. “I was just trying to be careful.”

“How far is it?” asks Ruby. “Compared to where we are now, how far?”

“Day and a half Northwest from here,” answers Yang. They’re still technically in Mistral territory, but they can make the hike in that time if they keep their pace quick.

Ruby pulls out her compass and starts to walk. “Okay,” she says, neutral, cold. So unlike her it’s almost like she’s blurring in Yang’s vision, becoming something between a stranger and the plucky girl who entered Beacon with an unshakeable dream right in the middle of this forest.

“Ruby-” tries Yang.

“I said okay,” interrupts Ruby.

She continues to walk between the dead husks of burned trees, picking her way through the wasteland, and Yang, frustrated but not willing to push it yet, follows close behind.

/

“You’re fine,” Sun says, “just keep your eyes on me.”

“On you?” replies Blake, unimpressed despite the way she can feel her hands trembling. “Why would I do that?”

Sun rolls his eyes. It’s hard to see them under the mask he’s wearing, but it makes him look less inhuman. “Because you keep trying to look at everyone at once. You’re jumpy. It makes you look suspicious.” He doesn’t sound nervous, which can only be a good thing in this context.

Blake herself is as nervous as she is impatient to finally get this done. The shape of the White Fang mask is hard against her face, cold. It’s difficult not to let this transport her back into the past, to the sound and smoke of the riots, yelling her voice hoarse, letting the fury eat her up and burn her from the inside, the heat, the frustration-

“Hey,” interrupts Sun, “focus, c’mon. Eyes on me.”

Blake takes a breath. “Fine,” she says. She looks up, and Sun is still looking at her, closer to patient than she usually sees him. “Neptune’s in position?”

Sun nods. “Out the exit on the left in the back. He’s around the corner with the bike.” He looks at Blake again, must see something in her body language to make him worry. “You’ve gotta get your head on straight, Belladonna. We’re solid. Anything goes wrong, we bail before they know we were even here.” 

They’ve been planning this for two months. If Blake could see things as simply as Sun does, she wouldn’t be so on edge, but it’s not so straight-forward as getting out if things go south. This is the first real lead they’ve had on Adam in far too long, and Blake won’t stop until she gets the chance to sink a blade into his throat and watch the life drain from his eyes. 

It’s grisly, sure, but it’s the truth. And with the brutal, unforgiving turn this world has taken in the time since she and Sun joined up with Neptune and left the rest of the group, she can’t bring herself to feel bad about it.

It is what it is, and they’ll do what they need to, and that’s the end of it. The matter of fact certainty gives Blake the confidence to nod and lift her chin. “I’m ready when you are,” she says, and she knows she sounds cold, impassive.

Sun, by this point, is used to it. “After you.” He sweeps a hand in front of the two of them grandly.

“Now who’s sticking out,” mutters Blake to herself, but she pushes her shoulders back and turns the corner into the carpet leading into the ballroom.

It’s more extravagant than anything Blake’s ever seen in her life. The White Fang, in the time since Beacon collapsed, has been gaining power faster than ever, and that must translate to more wealth, too, since this place is practically dripping with jewels and finery. The ceiling is roughly thirty feet above them, and the chandelier looks so heavy it could kill someone were it to drop. It’s mostly black and white, of course, clear crystal decorations notwithstanding, but the effect is no less arresting.

Sun whistles under his breath, low and impressed. “You used to live like this?” he asks.

Blake shakes her head. “Not like this,” she answers. “Not anything like this.”

When she was young, portions were small. There was only so much to go around. Protesting, as it turned out, didn’t bring in much money. Something’s changed since then.

Sun doesn’t answer, and they press forward through the dense crowd. Getting in was the hard part, but they’ve been past the lead security at the door for almost half an hour. Now they just need to find their target, get as much information as possible, and get him alone if they can. 

As they walk, nudging past each faunus as they go, Blake wonders how many of them are people she knows from her childhood. If Ms. Jaroque and her son are still around handing out bits of their rations to anyone who looks like they need them. If Ilia is waiting in the shadows, blending in seamlessly like she’s so good at doing. If the rest of Blake’s childhood friends really grew up into this place that breeds hate. If they would even recognize her, not physically but ideologically. If everything is so different that Blake could burn this palace to the ground with everyone inside and not even feel a lick of guilt while she watched the flames.

“There,” says Sun, interrupting her train of thought. He’s gesturing, mostly subtle, toward the punch bowl, which is full of liquid so deep red it looks like it could be blood. 

_Classy_ , thinks Blake sarcastically. Around the bowl, a few White Fang masks appear to be chatting, their wearers looking sharp in tuxedos. Sun’s right, though; the pattern on the closest one to them looks like Adam’s mask, and the coif is right, and the more Blake looks at it the more sure she is that it’s him. Her heart starts to race. “Let’s go.”

She starts to walk forward, but Sun catches her elbow, forcing her to match his pace. “Slow down,” he tells her. “Come on, where’s the fire? We’re invisible here, remember? Act like it.” 

Blake has always, always hated it when Sun has a point. “Fine,” she says. As she slows down, though, she looks up again, and finds that Adam is already looking at her.

His eyes are partially obscured in the shadow of his mask, but his whole body is facing toward her, and his mouth is tilted into a crooked smirk. The more she looks at him, the more familiar he is, the line of his body and the shock of his hair and the cruelty in his expression all coalescing into something out of Blake’s nightmares and her murder fantasies both. 

“Blake?” asks Sun. It sounds like it might not be the first time he’s tried to get her attention.

Adam is still looking at her. He crooks a hand, a _come here_ gesture that she’s well acquainted with.

Dread pours down her spine like icy water. “He wants me to go over there,” she says. Her own voice sounds far away, like she’s trying to talk through static.

Sun is quiet for a second, maybe looking for himself, maybe checking behind them. Blake isn’t sure. She’s not looking at him. “It’s a trap,” he says finally. “We need to get out of here. Keep your head down, let’s go.”

“We can’t,” snaps Blake. They’re so _close_. There’s a shuffle of people around them as they’re starting to draw attention, maybe just by being the focus of Adam’s gaze, or maybe because Blake was a little too loud when she retorted. Whatever it is, it probably won’t end well, but Blake doesn’t care. They’re right here. She could kill him now, and she and Sun could run far and fast, and they might not make it out but wouldn’t it be worth it? Wouldn’t it?

“Hey,” says Sun. “Eyes on me.”

Blake, reluctantly, draws out of her fantasy and looks at him. He looks more worried than she was expecting, and urgent, too. 

“Let’s go,” he repeats. “We’ll find another way, but if we stay any longer this whole thing is gonna blow up in our faces.”

In the end, Sun leads the way with Blake’s elbow in his hand, and she half-staggers behind him, trying not to look back. A few people try to stop them, and a couple ask if they’re okay, but they keep moving, moving, moving. What Blake knows for sure is this: an object in motion will stay in motion. 

So she doesn’t stop, and she doesn’t stop, and they stumble out the side door into the frigid air.

Neptune is waiting for them where they’d planned to meet, and they all pile haphazardly onto the bike. Blake doesn’t put on her helmet. Neptune is asking, frantically, every question he can seemingly think of, stuttering between _what happened what went wrong where should I go is someone following you-_

Sun answers, fairly measured and calm, and Blake doesn’t say a word as the palace fades into the distance behind them and the road flying out from beneath them drowns out the rest.

/

The third briefcase of the day is thunked onto her desk, and Weiss opens it and takes her time examining the product. The two men standing in front of her are tall, wide, tattoos spanning their muscular arms, and one of them huffs impatiently, but she doesn’t even glance away from her work.

“It’s good,” the other man insists.

Weiss hums distractedly, pinching a bit of the dust between her fingers and letting it drift back into the box. She can feel the energy emanating from the pile, but it’s always good to make sure she isn’t being cheated.

“Canister,” she says absently, and the desk makes a whirring sound before an empty canister slides up out of the top right corner. She packs it meticulously with blue dust before placing it in her rapier and sliding the dial.

“Is this necessary?” asks the first man. His hair is almost as blue as the dust.

Weiss points her weapon at the ground, and a pillar of ice sprouts from the slick gray floor of her quarters, twisting in a spiral pattern up to the ceiling. Sharp cones of ice jut out from the sides, and it’s so cold at its core that none of it melts in the mild atmosphere of the room. It looks impressive, sure, but even the air feels tensed with the threat, because the spiral looks _dangerous_. The men stop talking. 

Weiss smiles. “This will be satisfactory, thank you. You can talk to Reina by the door for your payment, tell her I approved it.” 

The men nod quickly and leave in a flurry of motion, apparently eager to get out of there. As they exit, Weiss waves away the spiral of ice and removes the dust from her rapier, packing it back into the briefcase and placing the case with the rest of the ones she’s collected, all lined up behind a false wall in her office. This one makes twenty-nine for the month, and nearly two hundred since she started. Daddy dearest certainly knows by now that the equivalent of white collar pirates are intercepting almost a third of his planned deliveries, but he hasn’t traced it back to Weiss yet, and with any luck he never will. She doesn’t know what she’ll do with all of this dust yet, but she does know that it’s better in her hands than someone else’s, and maybe the fight will come back someday. Maybe she’ll need it.

Anything is possible, after all, even if Weiss is going at it more or less alone these days. Having robots as servants is great mostly because a string of programmed numbers won’t question her and doesn’t need to be paid, but it does get lonely every now and again.

Reina, a gift from Winter, walks in stiffly. “Transaction completed, Miss Schnee.”

The package appeared outside the airship on a maintenance stop almost as soon as Weiss started this endeavor. The robot inside was fully functional, knew Weiss’ name, and was programmed to have a knack for administrative tasks. It didn’t have a return address or a note or anything that could help identify the sender, but Weiss was suspicious for about an hour before noticing Reina’s mannerisms and white hair and the style of her dress and realizing this could only be from one person. Weiss might not be close to her family anymore, but she still knows them.

Ever since, Reina and her sleek chrome body have kept Weiss company on this journey. 

“Pull up coordinates on the team, please.”

A screen slides down seamlessly in front of Weiss’ desk, which is made of rich, dark wood. It makes Weiss feel powerful sometimes. Other times, it just makes her feel like her father. 

The coordinates of the other three members of team RWBY pop up as blips on the screen, little red radar points that ebb and flow and change positions every time Weiss looks. Blake’s dot is moving very quickly, and then stops just as Weiss turns to look at it. She’s near where she grew up, if Weiss remembers correctly. Yang and Ruby, on the other hand, are continuing to make slow progress in the woods. They’ve changed directions a bit, but it wouldn’t be the first time they’ve gotten lost. 

“And JNR?” she asks. She used to call them Juniper for the first month even after Pyrrha, but there doesn’t seem like much of a point anymore. 

Jaune’s point lights up orange in the same place as always, a small settlement at the edge of the woods not far from Beacon where he must have decided to settle down properly almost nine months ago. Ren and Nora, similarly, have been bunking in the same place for a while now, their pink and green dots so close they’re almost on top of each other. 

It’s the same old same, but just as Weiss is about to dismiss the map, the three JNR blips are joined by a fourth.

“What’s that?” asks Weiss sharply.

Reina doesn’t answer for a moment, and then her eyes blink back open, too wide to be human, something uncanny in her form. “The diagnostics and tracking are based on uniform,” she says. “You entered seven uniforms into the database, not including your own. This uniform, previously stationary, is showing movement for the first time in-” a whirring sound- “one year. It has been moving for three days, the amount of time required to compare the motion and confirm that the dimensions are the same, as well as-”

“What does it mean?” interrupts Weiss, impatient, because this is … it’s simply impossible. “Who’s the blip?”

“Based on the motion data, fighting style, and fit of the armor, it appears to be Pyrrha Nikos.”

“That’s impossible,” snips Weiss.

Reina’s wide, inhuman eyes don’t blink. “The facts appear to confirm my hypothesis. I will do more data processing as more information comes in.”

Weiss’ eyes fill with tears without her permission. She blinks them away as quickly as she can, annoyed with herself, and snaps back into business mode. “You’re dismissed, Reina.”

The robot leaves, and the screen rolls back up, and the blip disappears.

They land in Vacuo in two days, just in time for another drop by an anonymous contact, and then Weiss is heading straight for that fourth blip to figure out what’s going on. She’s made a living off of unsavory connections and unexpected contacts, and she’ll be stretching them as far as they’ll go to figure out who’s out there impersonating Pyrrha and why.

It’s cruel, Weiss allows herself to think. It’s cruel and unfair, and someone will have to pay. She’ll make sure of it.

/

“They’re still looting,” whispers Nora from where she’s half crouched in the ceiling beams. Ren can barely see her in the shadows.

He shifts, pins and needles cramping his legs. Nora likes to have the high ground, so this setup makes sense, but he’ll need to get out from behind this cabinet pretty soon if he wants to be able to move his legs when the bandits get to this room. They need any advantage they can get to have a fighting chance, and having mobility is important for that. “I know. Do you want to…”

“Fight them?” finishes Nora. “Kinda. Better than sitting around waiting for them to find us.”

Ren thinks about it for a second, then shrugs.

Nora grins, sharp, all teeth, and flips down onto the wood floor. There’s a dull thud when she hits the ground, and the conversation downstairs slows to a halt at the sound. Ren can picture the looters’ ears pricking up, they way they must freeze when they realize they’re not alone. Nora notices, too, and shoots a finger gun at Ren. “Showtime,” she says.

Ren steps out into the room properly, wincing as he stretches his legs, and spins his guns in his hands. The motion is easy, familiar, and it helps him center himself as he prepares to fight. He sees Nora doing something similar across from him, watching her swing her hammer gently back and forth, loosening up her wrists as she prepares, too. She’s smiling, though, where he’s calm and collected. She’s everything that has ever been meant by the phrase _the joy of the fight._ Ren wouldn’t want to fight with anyone else, though he still feels the two missing pieces of their team like phantom limbs, and wouldn’t be surprised if Nora felt the same.

There’s a thunder of footsteps, and then a pause.

Ren looks to Nora, who nods, and then he points his guns at the door, fingers itching at the triggers.

The door bursts open, and Ren fires.

Nora’s yelling to his left, maybe something clever, maybe just a primal war cry, and Ren is twisting and swerving out of the range of the looters. Their weapons appear to be melee, mostly, knives and swords and clubs, but Ren fights best from a distance. 

There are four looters in total, all wearing dark green uniforms, all fighting in the same style: quick jabs and slashes followed by brief pauses, like they’re more used to sparring than trying to take people out. 

It takes he and Nora nearly an hour and thirty minutes to dispatch them. Two are knocked unconscious, and the other two flee. The fight, while invigorating, is ugly and exhausting, too. They walk away from it banged up yet again. It’s not the first time they’ve had to do this, and likely won’t be the last. In the last month, they’ve only progressed about a third of the way from the corner of the village where they’d been stuck hiding out. It seems like an army unaligned with any of the city-states has decided to use it as a base of operations.

“We’ve still got it,” remarks Nora absently, examining her hammer for any damage. She seems to think it’s fine, swinging it onto her back with a tired smile. “Shall we?”

Ren is both envious of and grateful for her boundless energy. “Lead the way.”

It’s been like this for months. At first, he and Nora had stuck close with Ruby and Jaune, fighting their way to Mistral after Qrow’s injury. As time progressed, however, their edges began to fray. Jaune became withdrawn, spending more and more time alone, and none of them could get through to him. Not even Ruby, who usually had such a knack for getting him to talk, could find a solution for his listlessness. They all knew the root of it, but they couldn’t exactly bring someone back from the dead. Jaune disappeared overnight. They tried to follow, and then they didn’t.

And then Ruby left when their paths collided with Yang, who had been on a solo mission to find her mother. Ren doesn’t know exactly what transpired in their hushed conversation, the sisters gesturing dramatically and whispering at the edge of their camp, but it ended with Ruby and Yang setting off together in a different direction than either of them had been heading.

Which left Ren and Nora.

For a brief while, Ren had been afraid that Nora would leave. It was as impossible a thought as Pyrrha being defeated in battle, which is to say it was unthinkable until it became real. 

They stuck together, though. Above all odds, and despite the poison infecting the forests, and in the face of clawing uncertainty, they stayed by each other’s sides. It’s that, if nothing else, that cements Ren’s certainty in their bond.

They make their way one house closer to the edge of the city, then another. They’re both empty. From the second story of the second house, Ren peers at the men below, careful to stay out of sight. They’re not soldiers—at least, he’s reasonably certain by their ragtag look and lack of standardized weaponry—but they are dangerous, and armed, and on a mission. He and Nora haven’t been able to figure out what that mission is. At this rate, they’ll be out of the town in a month, maybe two, and they never will.

“Jackpot!” yells Nora from downstairs. “There’s soup!”

Ren’s stomach rumbles. He smiles, walks back down to the first floor and away from the window and the setting sun. Nora is hoisting two cans triumphantly, both fists up in the air. She’s beaming. Ren is frustrated by their situation but not afraid. “Start up the stove,” he says. “We dine like royalty tonight.”

“You’ve got that right,” replies Nora, and lights the stove-top’s flame.

/

Jaune fiddles with the rusty hinge, tools spread out around him. His sprained wrist twinges. “God, I fucking hate this,” he mutters to himself, trying to maneuver the finicky pliers one-handed. He’d just wanted the door to stop creaking. It wasn’t supposed to turn into a day-long event, but he supposes that’s what happens when your days start to blur into each other. 

Disrupting the pattern is hard, takes work. Takes more time than it used to.

Jaune is only eighteen but he lives alone and it makes him feel so much older. He’s been in this house for almost a year now, found it abandoned not far from Beacon after he split off from the group he was traveling with, weirdly well-kept for how rural the area around it is. 

He didn’t ask questions, not because he didn’t want to but because there was no one to ask.

He still has questions. He still doesn’t have anyone to ask. It’s not a particularly fun way to live, but Jaune needs time and space. It’s hard to tell how much, or when he’ll feel ready to rejoin the world. Maybe after he gets this door to stop squeaking every time he comes or goes.

As he’s tweaking the hinge, door wide open while he works, he hears a twig snap in the woods. He freezes. Another twig snaps.

Jaune slams the door shut. He’d have tried to creep it closed, but it would’ve been just as loud, and he’s a big fan of having all of his limbs intact.

“Wait!” he hears, muffled. It’s a female voice, almost familiar, strained and hopeful. “I’m not going to attack you! I just need some help!”

Jaune shakes his head, willing away the ghost. “Glad to hear it,” he calls back. “Listen, I’m not a doctor, I can’t help you.”

A pause. The voice comes back, more hesitant. “Do you have any water?”

It’s been almost a month since he had any visitors. He doesn’t want to die, but he’s weak for company, and he doesn’t want this girl to die in the woods by his house. It would be creepy and uncomfortable. Jaune isn’t ready to live by a corpse.

He creaks open the door. The hinge seems to shriek in the still evening air. “Okay,” he calls, still pushing at the door, trying to yell over the racket. “Seriously, don’t try anything, I have a sword.” He grabs the sword with his left hand clumsily from where it’s hanging by the door. He’s only ever really used it to dispatch Grimm, but this mystery visitor doesn’t need to know that.

“Oh,” says the girl, stepping out from behind a tree. She looks amused and tired and relieved and surprised all at once, eyes shining with mirth but also a soft fondness. “So that’s where that went. I was looking for it.” Her hair is red and long, curling down toward her knees. Her armor is exactly as gold as Jaune remembers, and it shines in the dying light of the sunset. She’s beautiful. She’s impossible.

“What,” breathes Jaune, bowled over, less a question and more a prayer.

“Hello again,” says Pyrrha.

**Author's Note:**

> There's no set posting schedule right now, but that'll change as I gauge interest and figure out my own work/class schedules.
> 
> If you wanna chat, I'm on tumblr @teamokdynamite and twitter @poppyseedheart & I love new friends :)


End file.
